Angel, Wont You Take Me Home?
by Batwynn
Summary: The death of a young woman named Lilly sparks an investigation that leads detective Stark into a mystery he's not sure he wants to unravel. Add a tall, Dark stranger to the mix, and things get really complicated. [This is Frostiron]


At first, he wasn't sure what it was that bothered him about the scene. There were all the typical aspects of a suicide, like the half-filled bottle of pills on the floor, the broken glass—once containing water, and a note. There was always a note. It could almost be called a cliché at this point.

Tony narrowed his eyes and gave the body a second look-over. There was definitely something off here, he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Mussed hair. Dry skin around the nose and mouth. Lips parted, blue tint. The limbs have already gone stiff, and both hands are curled into the arms of the chair. Chewed nails—someone was a nervous wreck. How did she drop the glass if she was clutching the chair like that? Maybe before? Seems odd.

What else? What is it?

"What do you see?"

Tony replied without looking away from the body, "it's what I don't see that's bugging me the most."

"And what's that?"

"Tear tracks or Vomit."

"I usually find that as a good sign—or more like, I don't like finding vomit in my crime scenes. It's one of the few things that gets me."

Tony snorted and stood up from his crouched position. His back never could handle more than a few minutes of that, never mind all the issues with his chest these days.

"You know, Cap, you don't even have to be here and vomit is important. If this was an overdose, anyway."

Steve rolled his eyes, but paused to take in the corpse with fresh eyes. It was one of the few things that endeared the man to Tony, the fact that he would—90% of the time—consider his theories before throwing them out the window. The other things were mostly the fact that the Captain even let him into these crime scenes anymore. Other than that, they usually annoyed the fuck out of each other.

"Not everyone throws up when they OD," Steve mentioned. "That usually happens when they take it in one large dose and they end up choking to death on their own vomit before the stuff kills them."

"Why does everyone say that?"

"Say what?" Stave asked, blinking as he turned towards him.

"'Choked on their own vomit'. Like anyone's ever choked to death on someone else's vomit. Is there really any need to clarify that it was their own?"

"Can we focus on this case? Not every possible 'choking on a stranger's vomit' case i'm sure your going to look into later."

"No one said anything about a 'stranger', buddy."

"Friends don't let friends choke on vomit."

"Kinky, Rogers."

"Stark..." He warned, no longer playing along.

Right. Dead body.

Tony gave a lazy shrug and picked up the evidence bag containing the note. It was typed—another sure sign that this was anythingbut a suicide. Typed notes were unlikely, impersonal, untraceable, easy to type up and drop next to the body of someone you murdered. Who sat down at the computer and printed this shit out when you're on the cusp of ending your damn life? Didn't seem practical.

"I can't do this anymore," he read aloud. "The pressure is too much for me. Mom and dad: I'm sorry for everything. It's signed 'Lilly.'"

"That's pretty vague," the captain admitted, tapping a finger against the top of his clip board.

"Yeah... so, funny story," Tony began, dropping the note on Roger's hand as he walked past him. "Her dad's been dead for two years, according to that urn-shrine thing on the shelf over there. I doubt she was going to apologize to him like that. Maybe in heaven, or hell—whatever, I don't judge—but not in her suicide note."

Steve grumbled and followed him out of the living room and into the kitchen.

"That's not necessarily true,"he said, leaning against the doorframe to watch Tony work. "A lot of people have stuff to say to someone who's passed."

Tony knew that hit Rogers right in the personal-soft-spot. Everyone knew about Bucky and all the things left unsaid between them. Tony was pretty sure he was the only one who knew some of the more specific unsaid things, considering he tailed Steve to the graveyard one sunny Memorial Day and got an earful of secrets he'd never be able to share with anyone. No one would believe him, and honestly, it was just too sad to joke about. Way too sad.

And it wasn't as though he didn't have dead people with unsaid things of his own.

"Yeah," he mumbled as he opened the refrigerator to investigate its contents and avoid meeting Steve's eye. "Don't we all."

It wasn't until they were back at the station that the same thought struck him again. It just wouldn't leave him alone. It was like a moth flitting around a lamp, obnoxious and fuzzy.

"Hey, Clint!" He bellowed over the usual bustle and chatter of the precinct. When the detective failed to answer, Tony upped an octave. "CLINT! CLINTY! CLINTASTIC! CLINTONAT—!"

"SHUT IT!" Came an answering shout, followed seconds later by the detective himself. "What the fuck do you want and why can't you walk across the room like a normal person?"

"That's rich, coming from Mr. I shoot things at my TV to change channels because i'm too lazy to find the remote or get off the couch," Tony quipped, tossing the new file down in front of the younger detective. "Now answer me this: if you've got one living parent and one dead one—you've got plenty of space and time to write this out, mind you—do you lump them together in one measly sentence or do you refer to them separately?"

Clint picked up the file, flipping through page after page of reports and pausing on a photocopy of the note. Tony watched him mouth the words to himself, brow wrinkling the longer he stared at it.

"Yeah, no, I don't think so. If my dad was dead and I was about to off myself, I'd probably say something more specific to him. Like, at least some kind of a reference to his... Uh... Condition."

"'See you soon?' kind of thing?"

"Exactly," Clint agreed. "This seems... Odd."

Finally, someone who agreed with him. It was the start of a lead. Tony ran a hand through his already—3—day grimy hair and sat back down at his desk.

He had taken up silently thanking the captain for letting him to keep it whenever he sat down. He wasn't even supposed to be allowed on major cases anymore, never mind going on-scene. Tony liked to think it was because he was still the best God-damn detective in this city—maybe even state—but secretly, he knew that it was simply a matter of the precinct being understaffed and underpaid. Still, a desk and a title was pretty much all he had these days. He'd take it.

"I'm having the Geeks analyze the paper and shit to see if they can tell what kind of printer it came from. All I need is one scrap of evidence that the note didn't come from her computer and this is officially a homicide."

Clint raised an eyebrow, tossing the case-file back on the desk.

"You want this to be murder, huh?"

"BZZT! Wong-o. I know this is a murder, but I have no solid proof... Yet."

"But you want it to be one," Clint pushed, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms. Tony felt a life-commentary coming on. "You don't need dead bodies to keep life interesting."

"Once again," Tony grumbled, "pot calling kettle black."

"Look, I love my job—dead bodies and all, but I go home at the end of the day, Tony. I go out and have a few drinks with friends, maybe hit up a cinema. I got a life outside of this place."

"Hey! I have a life..."

Clint arched a brow and asked, "so when was the last time you talked to Pepper?"

Three months.

"Last week, not that it's any of your business."

"Uh huh. So when she—"

"BARTON! We got ourselves a robbery. High speed chase midtown—need a detective on scene."

Clint twisted to shout over his shoulder, "i'm on it!"

"Hey, let me on, too," Tony whined as the captain came over to give Clint the details. "I haven't done a robbery in years."

"Not today, Stark. You've got medical records to go through on this suicide case."

"That's grunt work, you know that. Come on, Steve."

"Not this time," he said, his voice slipping into command-mode. "You've been in the field once today already. Now tie up these loose ends and go home before midnight. Okay? No hanging around to do extra work."

Tony glared at his superior, ignoring Clint—who was probably mouthing, 'sorry!' As he backed his useless ass away—and picked up the ten pound pile of files on Lilly like it was a prison sentence.

"I'm not a senior-god-damn-citizen. I can put in as many hours as I want," he growled.

"Not if I order you to go home," Steve reminded him as he walked away. He paused by his office door to add, "and that is an order."

Six hours, twenty four reports, medical files, work references, family history, and ten cups of coffee later, Tony was home against his will.

What he had learned from sitting on his ass all day was this:

Lilly M. Addams was an unhealthy 23 year old with very few family ties and a robust work history. At the time of her death, she was working two jobs and—according to the land lord back at the apartment—was rarely late with her rent. Both jobs were minimum wage with no health plans, which meant she had to pay out-of-pocket for all her doctor's visits. Like the last few appointments, where they discovered the cancer in her left breast.

Apparently, she had been mostly unaffected until this past year when things started to go down hill. She couldn't afford the tests when she first started showing stronger symptoms, and was forced to work her ass off until she finally could get that appointment. The worst part was that it didn't seem to be enough reason for her mother to visit her, or even lend her some cash.

No, maybe the worst part was that all of this pointed to suicide, after all.

Which is depressing, Tony thought as he kicked the door shut behind him. His apartment was dark, save for the red, blinking light of his answering machine. Which meant Pepper hadn't returned and cold pizza was on the menu, again.

"Let it go, Tony, she's not coming back," he muttered to himself, flicking on the switch and tossing his coat on to the couch. Maybe Clint was right, maybe he needed to get out there again. He wasn't old, not really, and plenty of women had made offers in the past few months. Well, drunk women.

That's what you get for spending time in bars like the rest of the alcoholics.

Tony scowled and quickly shut that down. He wasn't an alcoholic. Not really. He couldn't drink more than a few drinks before he got really sick, thanks to all the medication he had to take to keep his body from rejecting something that was saving his life. Supposedly.

*BEEEEP*

'Tony? Are you seriously not there by now? It's almost midnight and you're not home. You forgot again, didn't you?'

There was a sigh.

'Whatever man, just call me in the morning so we can reschedule.'

"Oh fuck, Rhodey... Dinner—shitfuckgoddammit... Tomorrow, man."

*BEEEEP*

'... Tony?'

Tony dove for the phone before remembering that this was a message—from probably hours ago—and Pepper wasn't actually on the line. Silently cursing himself, he grabbed the phone anyway. He could call her back, it wasn't that late.

'Tony, we should talk. I know you're upset with us and avoiding me is how you handle things, but for once can you think I about what I need? I need closure, Tony. I need to sit down with you and have a conversation, not leave message after message on your answering machine... So, when you're ready to be an adult about this, call me back.'

Tony put the phone back. It was too late to call her, anyway. She was probably sleeping. Probably all cuddled up to her new boyfriend, who was probably 'nice' and 'adult'-like. Probably has harpies, too.

How's that for 'adult'?

Tony's scowl increased as he slid down into a slump on the couch. It was the perfect ending for a per-fuck-fect day. All he needed now was another attack.

Just as he thought it, his heart fluttered.

"Fuck you—no—I was being facetious..."

Like his heart gave a shit.

Tony slid even further down, until he hit the floor with a thump. Hand clutching his chest—as usual—Tony road out the panic attack with as much dignity as he could spare. He may be home and alone and no one was watching, but he was there, and he owed himself that much.

"Nnggaaah! Y-yeah... Thanks," he gritted out, letting his head thunk against the floor. Everything was spinning, but at least he could breathe again. Barely. He didn't get as much air as he used to, even since they installed the arc reactor.

It was something everyone told him he should be thankful for. Thank god they had the technology to save you. Isn't it amazing what they can do, these days?

Yeah, a giant hunk of magnet and metal in my chest. Fucking amazing.

It hurt, all the fucking time. He was breathing at half capacity, he couldn't even take the stairs most of the time, never mind do hisjob. The job he nearly got removed from thanks to this hunk of metal that 'saved his life.' No thanks, really, he'd rather be dead than live this kind of half-life shit.

Just like Lilly.

"No..." Tony whispered, staring up at his ceiling. "It's not the same. It's different. I'm alive."

Half alive.

"It's different."

Yeah, except where's your family, Tony? Your friends?

"I'm alive," he repeated harshly.

He scheduled a breakfast date with Rhodey, and made it just in time before his friend left.

"They're not even serving breakfast anymore, Tony."

"Looks like they are," Tony argued, slipping into the booth across from the man.

"What you see are the remains of my breakfast from a half hour ago."

Tony stole a home-fry and popped it into his mouth. "So I'll order lunch. Want a milkshake?"

"I want to get to work on time, unlike some people."

"Oh come on, i'm not that late."

"I've been here for nearly two hours," Rhodey pointed out dryly.

"And you should know by now that when I set a time, i'm two hours late—oh! Miss?" Tony called out to the waitress on her way by. She paused and gave him an unimpressed look. "Yeah, you, hi! You look lovely today."

"Whatever you say," she replied, and gave him the ghost of a smile. "Can I get you anything?"

"You sure can. How's your Reuben here?"

"Cabbagey."

"Sounds delicious, I'll have that and a chocolate milkshake. Make that two, my beautiful friend here needs some sweetness in his life."

"I got sweetness enough for both of us," grumbled Rhodey.

Tony snickered and winked at the waitress as she walked away without a glance back. He needed to up his game. Usually he got them drooling with two sentences.

"But seriously, what happened last night? You said you'd be out by ten."

Tony picked up the straw wrapper and began folding it over and over again. He needed a good lie—one that covered up the fact that he had worked in the field yesterday and maybe suffered the consequences. A little.

"I had a shit-ton of paperwork on this new case and I kind of forgot about dinner."

"You're on a new case?" He asked, curiosity piqued.

Rhodey was one of his few friends—no, wait, Rhodey was his only friend—who had any interest in his work. Back in the day, they had a few cases that overlapped with some of his work with the Marines. Mostly gun trafficking. On boats. Tony hated boats. Still, those were the good times, back when he could actually work.

"Apparent suicide. I thought it might be murder, but now i'm not so sure."

"And why not? Surprisingly, you first hunches are usually right," Rhodey reminded as he watched Tony pick up his straw and let a drop of water fall on the wrapper.

Tony grinned as it unfolded and wiggled like a worm. Who needed to be an adult when you could do this?

"Well, at first glance it seemed to perfect, almost stereotypical. Suicides are usually anything but." Tony flicked the wet wrapper across the table and leaned back with a frown. "A suicide is something personal. People want to leave their mark, or make it all about them. There's almost always something unique about every one of them."

"You know way too much about this stuff."

"I've been a cop for how long? I know enough."

Rhodey shrugged and asked, "So this wasn't personal?"

"It was nearly clinical," Tony said, frowning at the puddle that had formed on the table. Something about it... "Her fridge had prepared food in it."

"So?"

"So, who prepares food if they're planning on killing themselves?"

"Who says she prepared it herself? Maybe her boyfriend did. Maybe it's just leftovers."

Tony narrowed his eyes at the puddle. Seriously, what was it?

"No... No boyfriend. It was a lunch for her work the next day," he said slowly.

Her time of death had been at 2 PM yesterday afternoon. They got a call ten minutes later from the friend, coming to visit and using the spare key to get in. Which meant the killer—if there was one—probably fled the premises in a hurry. Didn't have time to check stuff like the refrigerator. Twenty minutes later, Tony had been on scene. That was a half hour total between her death and their arrival and yet... where was the water from her glass? Did she drink every last drop? Doesn't seem plausible.

"Rhodey... how long does it take water to evaporate off of hardwood flooring?"

"Why the hell do you think I know the answer to that?"

"Ballpark it."

"I don't know," He grunted, frustrated. "Depends on the day, I guess. A hot day? Prolly twenty minutes, tops. Cold day? Who knows."

"Than, what, there wasn't any water left in the glass?" Tony wondered out loud.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but sure."

Tony stared at the water for a moment longer before throwing himself out of the booth.

"Whoa, wait a second," Rhodey grunted, standing up after him. "Where you going?"

"I need an actual scientist to answer this!" Tony yelled over his shoulder, his phone already out and dialing.

"What about lunch!?"

"Rain check!"

Rhodey watched him push his way out the door and take off down the street, already babbling into his phone.

"You always say that..."

"Bruce, talk to me baby. Tell me you know this, it's important," Tony yelling over the shouts of protest as he pushed past people on the street. It was New York, you'd think they were used to it by now.

"Tony, as much as I love your blind faith in me, I can't magically give you your answer. I'd need to know all the conditions of the environment that the water evaporated in. Temperature, surface, wind speed, etc."

"Hardwood floors, uh, warmish, no wind. Probably no wind, the window was open but I doubt that much got in there. What more do you need? Come on!"

Tony recognized Bruce's exasperated sigh and knew he was about to be schooled, as usual.

"Look, evaporation is a cooling process. If the water is at, say, your average room temperature, there's going to be particles moving as fast as they would be if the water was boiling, and some moving slower than average. The faster moving molecules are the ones that have enough energy to free themselves from the surface and there you go, evaporation."

Tony slipped into a side street and plugged a finger in his free ear so he could hear better. "Okay, but what does this mean for my puddle and who fucking cares if it's a cooling process?"

"You should fucking care if it's a cooling process. As soon as the faster moving particles break free, it leaves the slower moving ones behind. Which, in turn, means the water is now cooler than before. This means this puddle of yours will have to absorb heat from sources around it to continue to evaporate. Which is why I would need to know the exact conditions to even venture a guess."

Tony froze, glaring at the piles of trash in front of him. It wasn't Bruce's fault his lead just curled up and died, but still...

"So... you're telling me my only lead is a dud."

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, sounding sincere. "It looks like you'll need to wait for the coroner to finish her report and get that tox screen in."

"Great, another few days with a possible killer running around."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help, but I need to get back to work."

Tony sighed, tilting his head back to gaze up at the thin, spit of blue sky between the maze of fire escapes.

Wouldn't it be nice to fly? he wondered idly. Maybe he'd take up sky diving.

"Hey, thanks anyway. I'll call you back if I get anything else," he said, and hung up. "Or maybe I'll just jump off a fucking building."

"I would not suggest that," purred a cool voice from behind him.

Tony jumped and turned to find a tall, pale stranger standing directly behind him. It was alarming how quietly the guy moved, or maybe Tony had been too caught up in his conversation to notice. Or maybe was he seriously losing his touch as a detective.

"Can I help you? Were you on your way to the dumpster over there? I can get out of your way," Tony joked, giving the stranger a small bow.

The man quirked a brow and replied, "I was thinking something more along the lines of lunch."

"From the... dumpster?"

"From a cafe, or diner, or perhaps even a five star restaurant."

Tony stared at the man, meeting his alarmingly green eyes to find them laced with humor. He was being teased, obviously.

"Uh, okay," he spoke slowly. "Don't let me stop you?"

The man leaned down—because of course he was something like 7 feet tall—and grinned like a cat who got his cream.

"You seem to misunderstand. That was an invitation to join me for lunch."

Well that was unexpected. Right after some bad news and a failed lunch, a perfect stranger comes up and offers to feed him? Presumedly feed him.

That was a little too coincidental.

Tony narrowed his eyes at the stranger for a long moment.

"You're paying."

"Correct," the man replied, grin widening.

"You're on, TDH."

"TDH?"

"Figure it out by the end of our lunch and maybe I'll tell you my name."

The man giggled—definitely a manly giggle if Tony ever heard one—and clapped his hands together.

"You, as you said, are on."

The man's name was Loki.

Loki figured out what TDH meant before they even entered the diner.

Tony hadn't been flirted with this much in months.

It was nice.

'I can't wait for you to shut me up. Shut it up! '

Tony hissed at his phone, the sunlight, the pigeons trying to mate outside of his window, life in general.

'Shut. It. Up!' His phone screamed, again.

"Yeah yeah, that's the plan," Tony growled, and swiped the screen to answer. "What do you want, Steve?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"Personalized ringtone. It reminds me of what I want from you every day."

"What?" Steve murmured, sounding distracted.

For you to shut up, thought Tony, and replied, "forget it. What's up? It's, like, 7AM."

"There's a break in the case, I need you to come in."

"Steve, I had a long day yesterday, can't it wait?"

There was an awkward pause before the captain answered, "did something happen? You don't turn down case work. Ever."

"Nothing major, just a little attack the other night. I'm still a little—"

"You had an attack? Dammit, Tony! This is why I said no field work!"

"Hey!" Tony snapped, jerking himself up from the mess of sheets and pillows around him. "I'm fine, I handled it."

"You nearly died the last time this happened. I knew this was a bad call, I shouldn't have humored you."

"Excuse me? I nearly died because I got hit. In the chest. With a baseball bat. Pretty sure that's some extremely different circumstances."

"No. No more, Stark. No more field work. You're on desk duty until you're better."

"I don't get better, Rogers! This isn't some boo-boo you kiss and make better. It. Does. Not. Heal."

Tony froze, panting into the silence that resulted from his outburst. It stretched on and on, only the occasional burst of chatter around the department. Roger's must have his door open.

Somewhere, Tony heard the tell-a-tale signs of a pigeon getting laid.

"... then we need to discuss your retirement, Stark."

"No. Oh no, no, no," Tony whimpered throwing himself from his bed and quickly grabbing a pair of jeans. "Don't do this to me, Rogers. Not now."

"If you're not getting better, then—"

"So what if I can't get better? Lots of people work with a disability. What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"This is not up for discussion, Stark. Come in so you can hand over your badge."

Tony clutched the phone to his ear and closed his eyes. He could do this. They didn't call him a Smooth Talker for nothing. He just needed to get himself back on the case, that's all. Then they'd see that they fucking needed him.

"Wait! Just wait, okay? I have a lead."

"A lead?" Rogers prompted. "What is it?"

"The water!"

"What water?"

Tony snapped his fingers.

"Ex-actly! Where was the water from her glass?"

"... She drank it all, Stark. That's not a lead."

"Oh yeah? Then what's this big break of yours?"

Tony could almost hear Steve pinch the bridge of his nose, like he always did when he ran out of patience.

"We got access to her bank records this morning and it looks like she transferred all of her savings to an offshore account just before she killed herself. We think this was an anonymous donation, possibly to a cancer foundation."

"You know a lot of cancer foundations with offshore accounts?" Tony sneered, shaking his head in disappointment. Seriously, there was no way they actually believed that.

"There's been a few cases of fraud lately, so yeah, I know there are some out there," the captain replied. "Stark, don't drag this out. I want you off this case and in my office by the end of the day. We can discuss your retirement plan and start settling your open cases."

Tony squeezed the phone harder, maybe attempting to break it, maybe not. He couldn't think right now, not when his entire life was crashing and burning right before his eyes.

"Please, Steve... Give me one more chance. Let me finish this case, at least."

"Stark—"

Tony quickly continued over him, "It's not like there's any bad guys to run after, right? According to you guys, anyway. So what harm can it do to let me wrap this up?"

Another sigh, great.

"... God help me—fine, you can finish this case. Have fun with all the paperwork," he grumbled. "You still need to come in so we can work this out."

"Great!" Tony cheered, pulling one leg of his pants on. "Oh!—but I can't come in today, anyway. I have a date."

"A date? You're kidding. Since when?"

"Since I got a date. Look, I'd love to stay and chat—no really, I adore our shouting sessions—but I hear the sound of free food calling me."

"Tony, can we please—"

"WHAT'S THAT?" Tony shouted. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER THE BUTTERY GOODNESS OF WAFFLES! Okay? Okay. Bye!"

He ended the call and tossed the phone on to his bed with a frustrated growl. It was taking all of his will-power not to scream his throat raw. He was better than this, stronger than this.

He wouldn't break, breaking meant weakness and that's one thing Stark's could never be. Weak.

"I will go out on this date—" Tony babbled, tugging his jeans over his hips. "—and I will have a fan-fucking-tastic breakfast, and we will talk about anything but work—" he pulled a black t-shirt over his head. "—and I'll look into those gorgeous eyes and I will flirt shamelessly and I won't panic. I won't panic. I won't fucking panic."

His heart rate started to increase.

"Okay, maybe I'll panic a little."

His life was crashing and burning. Tony was allowed to panic a little.

Loki was late for their date, and Tony was totally okay with that. Totally cool. It was fine to be over an hour late, he did it all the time. An hour, 13 minutes, and 24 seconds late, to be precise. Not that Tony was counting, or anything.

Loki finally stalked into the diner just as the waitress was bringing Tony his fourth cup of coffee and smiling at him with pity-filled eyes.

"Ah, you waited for me," Loki drawled, giving the woman a sharp smile. It was if he knew she was sympathizing with the poor, stood-up man. It may have given Tony a warm feeling inside. "May I have one of those for myself, please?"

"Of course, honey. I'll be right back," she replied, skittering off to fetch another cup.

"You came," Tony pointed out uselessly. "Finally. I thought I was going to have to starve."

Loki shed his long, black jacket and slid into the seat across from him with all the ease of a cat. It was impressive, considering the hideous squeaking noises Tony's ass made every time he slid across the booth seats.

"Surely you could have ordered yourself something?" He asked with a much kinder smile.

"Nah, I don't eat a lot in the first place. Plus, I kind of just lost my job."

"Your job? Why on earth did you lose your job? Health issues, perhaps?"

Tony choked on his coffee, and set the mug down with a clatter. Great, his hands were shaking. What happened to 'don't panic?'

"Uh... do I seem like I have problems with my health?"

Loki tilted his head and gave him a slow look-over that should have felt hot but came off as cool and calculating. Tony didn't appreciate looks like that, that's the very reason he stopped going to the doctor.

"Your pallor is a little on the pale side and when I met you, you were wheezing rather loudly."

"Well you're not exactly some golden-skinned Adonis, either. Ever consider changing your name to Jack? The Pumpkin King."

Loki's lips tilted down into a scowl. Well, it was more of a pout, which made it hard for Tony to actually get mad at the guy. Even if hewas making fun of him for looking sick because he was sick. God dammit, that was an asshole move, looking cute like that.

"Do you find me unattractive?"Loki asked just as the waitress walked up with his coffee. Tony opened his mouth, considered how awkward this already was, and closed it again.

"Can I get you guys anything else?" She asked, giving Tony a look.

Tony cleared his throat and replied, "uuuuuhhsurre. Sure. I'll have the waffle special. Extra whipped cream and blueberries."

Loki arched a brow. "Shut up, I know it's the same thing I got last time, I'll explain... Later." He turned back to her and added, "Oh, and a chocolate milkshake."

"And I shall have the plain omelet. A breakfast for lunch, that's the wonderful thing about diners," Loki commented, flashing another shark-like grin at the waitress. He really had it out for her, for some ungodly reason.

She giggled nervously and took off to the kitchen with what could only be called a power-walk.

Tony waited until she was out of ear shot to flick Loki's hand and hiss at him, "of course I think you're attractive, I didn't follow youjust for the offer of free food and what is your problem with our waitress? Were you past lovers in the night? Are you current lovers in the night?"

Loki snorted harshly. "With her? I would rather bathe in magma."

"Wow... that much hate, huh?"

"Let us just say," Loki purred, leaning over the table to look him right in the eye. "I dislike the way she looks at you."

Tony leaned in more and whispered, "And how is that?"

"As though she has the ability—no, the worth to hold your attention."

Tony's eye slide down to the man's lips. He couldn't help it, Loki was right there and talking and those lips were moving. He had to look and then, of course, he was stuck because Loki licked his lips and Jesus fuck whatever happened to 'experimental'? Why did he ever think finding men attractive was an experiment? This guy was... was...

"I'm going to kiss you if you don't move," Tony murmured, eyes flicking up to meet green.

Loki didn't move.

Tony sucked in a small breath and closed the gap between them. It was only supposed to be a little kiss, they were in the middle of a diner, after all, but as soon as their lips met something sort of shorted out in his head. Everything shorted out. Except the whole kissing part, yes, that was working just fine.

They didn't stop, even with the table cutting into his stomach as he leaned in for more. Even with the way his arm was shaking from holding himself up. It didn't matter, because he had Loki's face cupped in one hand and this kiss? Holy shit.

"Ah... Ehm..."

Tony smiled against Loki's lips and let him go with one last chaise kiss on the lips. He enjoyed the hungry expression across from him for a moment before he turned his smile on the waitress.

"Yes?"

"I... Just wanted to ask if you... Wanted maple syrup?" She asked, holding up the bottle with shaking hands.

"Yep."

"Er... okay," she said slowly, glancing at Loki several times before sliding the bottle on to the table and backing away.

By then, Tony was already bored, and turned back to give Loki an appreciative look over. He licked his lips, pleasantly surprised by the taste of spices he found there. And, for once, he couldn't think of anything to say. At least, not without sounding like a complete idiot.

That was perfect, right? I thought it was perfect.

You taste way better than anything we're going to eat here.

I think I've gone full gay for you.

He was still brainstorming when their meal arrived, and when Loki finished his omelet, and when Tony chewed his last bite of waffle, and when he took his last sip of milkshake. He struggled right up until they stopped outside of the diner door and looked at one another in awkward silence.

"So—uh—want to do this again sometime?"he tried.

"The Lunch or the kiss?"

"Both," Tony replied. "Both is good."

"Both is good," Loki agreed, and left Tony with a smirk and a simple kiss on the cheek.

There was something disturbing about crime scene photos after being physically present at the scene yourself. It always felt like a mockery—like the set for a TV show rather than real, photographic evidence of a real event.

Tony hated them. Hated how fake the blood looked. Hated how posed the bodies looked. Hated how he remembered standing right there, on that very same ugly shag-rug and looking down at that very same brutalized corpse.

But, it wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter, he was a detective and his job was to detect.

"I don't see it," he muttered to himself, squinting at a shot of the broken glass.

"Are you still hung up on that?" Natasha asked, leaning over his shoulder and flicking the photo with a long, red nail.

Tony argued, "It's a lead," and tried to shrug her off.

"It's a 'feeling', not a lead. And don't you dare drag Clint into this nonsense, he has enough trouble focusing as it is."

"You're not his mom."

"No, but I might as well be. Behave, and maybe I'll put in a good word for you with the Cap."

Tony scoffed, "the day a 'good' word comes out of your mouth is the day blood pours from the skies."

Another red nail flicked the back of his ear before she disappeared into the Land of Desks and Phones. Tony grunted, scratched at his ear, and went back to searching for the illusive Puddle. He would take anything, a sheen on the flooring, a blurred photo taken through the bushes, anything that even hinted that he was wrong. So, you know, he could prove that he was right.

There was never any water in that glass.

If there was never any water in that glass, this was a set-up and therefor a capital 'M' Murder.

Capital 'M' Maybe.

"Stark!" Came the call.

"Busy!"

"Not for me you're not. Get in here!"

And of course, there was the retirement thing. Just what he needed in the middle of his last case.

"Sit down," the captain ordered, riffling through piles of paperwork without looking up. He continued to make a bigger mess as Tony sat quietly, and observed. The man had never been graceful, not in the field or behind a desk. It was something Tony had made into a predict joke and somewhere along the line the nickname "Steve Stumbler" came into play and stuck. No one could trace it back to Tony, but the captain knew damn well that it came from him.

"Need a hand?" Tony asked innocently, twiddling his thumbs like a schoolboy in the principle's office.

"I got it," Steve snapped, yanking out a folder and sending an entire stack tumbling to the floor. "Shit!"

"Language."

He was sent a silent glare before said folder was shoved into his hands unceremoniously.

"Here. Read it. Sign it."

"You want me to read all this?" Tony asked, narrowing his eyes at the first page. "What is this, extra, extra fine print? Does that say 'a stipend'? Jesus, Rogers, i'm 40, not 90. I don't need a retirement stipend."

"So you don't want money for sitting around in your ass?"

"Are you saying I can't get another job?"

"I'm saying you don't have to," Steve argued. "You've done your duty to your country—to your city, and you deserve to sit on your ass for a while. Besides, according to the department physiatrist, you haven't had a doctor's appointment since our last set of drug tests."

"I've had appointments..."

"That you actually went to?"

"Maybe."

Steve let out a bemused huff of laughter and shook his head. "For a detective, you're a terrible liar."

"You know i'm not even trying," Tony grumbled, flipping through the folder and scanning each page sparingly. "I don't know about this, Cap. Even if it's desk work, i'm still the best detective you got."

"One of the best," he reminded him gently, rolling a pen across the desk for him. "You were one of the best, Tony. But things change and with the accident, you've barely been keeping up with the uniforms, never mind our detectives."

Tony hated the 'were'. They were already talking about him in the past tense, like he was already gone.

You know who does that? Criminals. Murders do that.

Tony swallowed his anger and asked with as much carefully controlled snark as he could mange, "Can I take this home with me? This old man needs is glasses."

Steve considered him, expression blank, before nodding slowly. "Fine, but get this done before we wrap up the Lilly case. The tox screen and corner's report should be complete by this afternoon."

Tony stood and tucked the folder under his arm. It felt unfamiliar there, where the weight of his gun should be. He hadn't worn the harness since he was put on desk duty and he hadn't felt the same since. "Call me with the findings, then, I have some light reading to do."

With a curt nod to the man who had once stood by his side no matter what, Tony left the precinct with a permanent frown fixed on his face.

The day had gone from wonderful to shit in the short period of three fucking hours. That almost beat the all time record for shit-hitting-the-fan, but the day his chest got filled with shrapnel still held first place.

Tony gave himself a mental gold star of suckage, and walked home without thinking about Loki once.

Both Natasha and the captain texted him sometime in the early morning.

The paper came from her printer.

She died of an overdose, with no signs of foul-play.

Case closed.

Tony turned over and went back to his nightmares. At least there he could die without having to work at it.

The day he handed in the forms was the same day he ended up in the hospital. It was no surprise he suffered an attack right there on the precinct floor, surrounded by his ex-coworkers, criminals in the middle of being processed, and people he sometimes called friends.

He didn't even know what was happening until someone was lifting his head up off the floor while others yelled about, 'not breathing!' and, 'Call an ambulance!'

His chest hurt, a lot. His head hurt too,oddly enough. That wasn't a usual symptom of an attack until after the panicking and heart attack wore off. Today must be a Special Day.

At some point he gave up on his dignity—he had to, he wasn't even sure where he was anymore, never mind who with—and passed out.

He woke up when they stabbed him with needles, and proceeded to snap nasty comments at every nurse and doctor that came near him for the next hour. By the end, he was almost sure one—If not three—of them had tried to slip something poisonous into his drip and the nurse responsible for bandaging his head gave an extra hard tug before she was done.

Once they finally left him alone, Tony slowly wiggled his probably-concussed way off the edge of the bed and grabbed his phone from the bag containing his personal effect.

He already had ten voice mails from people around the precinct, probably offering their condolences for the loss of his career and pride. He'd listen to those later, when he was drunk and able to laugh at their lame attempts at healing him with humor.

Right now... right now all he wanted was that feeling he got yesterday morning. The warmth that wormed its way in and made a home for itself. He wanted Loki to hold his hand and promise that he was still attractive, even with wires sticking out of him. Not that Tony thought he was, but Loki seemed like a good liar.

Tony decided to risk it, and if anything went wrong, he'd blame the concussion.

'Hi handsome. Took a ride in a (ambulance icon) today. Rmbr when u said I looked like (poop icon)? Yeah. I sort of had a problem and now my head is (spark icon). Want 2 come talk about it? I'm in room 205. Mby 208. Bring (burger icon)s.'

Tony put the phone down and counted sixty seconds before checking it.

Nothing.

Loki was probably at work right now, like a normal, not-fired, not-disabled person and shit, there goes my heart rate.

Tony forced himself to take a few deep breaths to slow the beeping down, before checked his phone again.

Nothing.

Maybe he should try again? After all, not everyone understood the icons and Loki seemed like an old soul. Aka: technology adept, but start using the lingo and he turns into a 90 year old deaf man.

'R U working? Sry. Let me kno, bored.'

And Lonely, Tony thought, making note of the boring white walls, and the boring techno-vomit-green colored chairs, and the sickly-yellow colored curtains. The department had sprung for a private room—go them—so at least he didn't have to deal with strangers trying to talk to him or whine about their problems or steal his grapes. If he had any grapes. Someone should have brought him grapes by now. Or blueberries. Or a god damn burger.

Tony slowly peeked down at his phone and hooted with joy when he saw a massage alert.

"Hell yes, I knew he... cared... About... God dammit."

Loki: 'Why are you in the hospital? Can't come, wrapping up loose ends at work. Won't be around for a few days. When do you get out?'

Tony scowled and wrote back so fast his fingers felt the burn.

'Had an attack and hit my head. B out tomorrow. Loose ends? U don't have time 2 stop by? Rly could use some company rn.'

Loki: 'One night alone won't kill you, will it? I'll meet you tomorrow if I have some time.'

Tony didn't bother to answer, instead, throwing his phone back on to the bag of his clothes with more force than necessary. He didn't care if it was rude. If Loki thought one night by himself wouldn't kill him, then he shouldn't be worried if Tony doesn't write back, right?

Tony clenched his fists into the sheets and muttered vehemently, "'It's only one night'.Bastard."

The earth was tipping, trying to shake him off. Deep down, Tony knew it wasn't personal, but each new ache and bruise made him wonder if maybe it was, after all.

Someone out there hated him. Abused him at every turn.

You can't have this, Tony. You can't be happy. You can't, you can't, you can't.

The earth tipped the other way, sending Tony stumbling into yet another wall. Definitely, possibly personal. If not a little malicious.

And then everything was too large, the ceiling far above him, portals and doors out of reach. He tried jumping, but they simply moved out of the way. He was trapped. Water was coming in.

Oh right, the ship is sinking.

Someone darted down the end of the hall, disappearing through a door to the left.

"HEY!" He called out, scrambling after them desperately and he knows this. This actually happened.

The shadow was an agent of some kind of terrorist group.

The ship was an American Navy vessel.

This was the last time Tony could actually breathe.

In 5 minutes, he would be drowning in knee-high water and his own blood.

"Stop!" He called out again, bursting through the door with his gun raised. The earth—the ship rolled again, and, of course, Tony never did manage to get his sea legs. He had Rhodey for that, didn't he?

No, Rhodey isn't here. He's supposed to be here but he isn't. The one time he's late... The one time.

Tony didn't see anyone in the room, because the Hydra agent— who he and Rhodey had been tracking for three months— was already gone and decided to leave a surprise for him.

The surprise blew up in his face. Or more accurately, his chest.

Tony woke up to his heart-rate monitor screaming almost as loud as he was. This, of course, got all the nurses and doctors rushing at him. Which made him scream more, and lash out, and go for the eyes.

The department was paying for a dose of sedative, too.

Go them.

'One night won't kill you...'

That wasn't true, exactly. Tony spent his cab ride home thinking about it and counted at least 237 ways he could have died last night in that room, alone. Some were—but not limited to—suicidal thoughts, but a great amount of them turned to less likely options like zombie outbreaks or a sudden burst appendix.

It wasn't the first time Tony had thoughts like that. Usually, it was entertaining and he even got his team to join in from time to time. Natasha's choice of death was a knife fight. Clint's had lots of explosions and way too many sound effects. Bruce—who Tony managed to drag away from his lab for all of two seconds—wanted to die doing something with dangerous sciences. As long as it saved lives. His own varied from freezing to death on Mt. Everest to exploding in space.

No one invited the Captain to the conversation. Everyone's lost someone, but they didn't have the heart to joke about death when Steve got that far-away-pained look every time it he thought too hard about it.

The thing was, Tony always had the same excuse every single time:

'I'm never going to die, so why be realistic?

And of course it was a joke, because they all knew damn well the percentages and statistics of detective or cop death rates. He wasn't stupid enough to think he'd out-live any of them. He just never expected to get to the point where it was less a joke and more a sick fantasy.

Coming home to an empty apartment? Check.

Lost the job you put years of school, training, and work into? Check.

Lost you ability to know when a case is a suicide or a murder? Check.

Find a guy who is, granted, really hot but kind of an asshole? Check.

Life, meet Crashing and its friend, Burning. BFFs 4E.

"That's it," Tony said to his uninviting living room. "I'm getting drunk."

As it turned out, Tony didn't have any alcohol on the premises, which meant he was forced to brave the streets make an attempt at contact with people once again. At least liquor stores have low standards for human interaction.

Tony darted through the sliding door, keeping his sunglasses on against the fluorescent lights. It was, undoubtably, common practice there, considering their clientele. Plus, he didn't care if he looked like a weirdo anymore, he had a right to be weird.

"Right... whiskey, whiskey—ooh, fancy Gin. I can make mint mixers with that. If I have mint. Mmh, more whiskey," Tony muttered to himself, grabbing several bottles from the shelves as he moved through the store. By the time he reached the counter, he had enough liquor to stock a private bar.

"ID?" The man drawled, looking as bored as he sounded.

"Really? I mean, I'm flattered that you think i'm under 21, but even I can't fool myself anymore. It's the crow's feet, dead give away."

"Your ID."

"Wow, nothing gets by you," Tony replied, flipping open his wallet and flashing a fake grin to match the one on his license. The man took one glance at it and went back to the register. Tony was starting to think his zombie outbreak idea wasn't far off.

Eventually, the cashier managed to push all the right buttons and tell him his total without hurting himself.

"That'll be... 241 dollars... and 60 cents."

Tony let out a low whistle. "Wow, good thing I just got paid," he said, swiping his card.

After a minute, there was a beep.

"Declined."

"What? That's not right," Tony argued, waving his card at the man. "I just got paid today, I checked my bank when I left... when I got home."

The man sighed dramatically. "Try again."

Another swipe, another beep.

"Look, dude, if you don't have money—"

"I do!" Tony snapped. "Just hold on to these for me while I check my balance, okay?"

"It's our policy to return the items to the shelf if the customer doesn't pay."

It was so tempting to reach across the counter and strangle the guy. He could probably get away with it, too. Who better than a detective to craft the perfect crime scene?

"Dude, you don't have—"

"Can you just hang on a minute? Just hold on to these for me for one minute. Can you do that?"

"... okay."

"You're going to put it all back, aren't you?"

"Yep."

With a final aggravated hiss, Tony exited the store and pulled out his phone to check his bank balance. Right before he choked out of the hospital, Clint dropped by to tell him that the captain auto-deposited his final detective paycheck in his bank that morning. The total was for the entire month, more than enough to pay for booze and pizza and hookers.

Okay, maybe not hookers.

Tony glared at the little zero on his screen and growled, "What the fuck?"

That had been a lot more zeros and a five or six in there just this morning. Where the hell did it go? No one access to his account information but him. Unless...

Tony scrambled to pull out his wallet again, digging through the receipts, coffee stamp cards, and useless notes to find the one scrap of paper everyone told him not to keep. The paper with his account information and social security number. And a recipe for almond cookies he jotted down once.

"Not here... not here."

What was it Pepper told him?

'Spend the extra minute to actually memorize these things. How many cases of identity theft do you guys deal with every year? You're an officer of the law, Tony, you should practice what you preach.'

Tony checked the change purse, the empty slots for credit cards he never got approved for, the tiny mystery pocket for losing stuff in because no one can get their fingers in there.

Nothing.

The paper was gone, and so was his all of his money.

By the time he made it through the front door—again—he could barely move his legs. He'd started going down hill about a block away from his apartment, the depression weighing heavily on him.

Tony threw himself into his favorite armchair and leaned his head back with a low groan. Maybe he was having a bad reaction to one of the three medications they put him on. Or maybe he was just tired and slightly concussed.

But where the hell was his money? There was definitely something off here, he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Isn't that familiar, you hack. 'Something's wrong, but you don't know what.'

"Shuddup," Tony slurred, his eyelids drooping as he gave in to the weight hanging over him.

"Ah, but I haven't said anything yet," came a voice.

Not quite sure he heard what he heard, Tony took a minute to open his eyes again. Then, he spotted the dark figure standing in front of his window and his body caught up with him.

"Who's there!?"

"Tsk, tsk detective. I thought better of you. Surely you had some inkling this past few days?"

An inkling of what? What was he missing, and where was his gun?

Cut off from friends and family, losing the job, sick and suffering. Doesn't that sound familiar?

Who was the only one who managed to get close enough to sneak that paper out of his wallet? Who showed up in the middle of a random alleyway, right when Tony thought he was on to something with the Lilly case?

Who was always so interested in his illness?

"Loki..." Tony grunted, sobering up enough to force himself upright. And of course, he could recognize that wicked giggle anywhere.

Sometimes he hated being right.

"Ah, Stark has figured it all out," Loki purred, his shadow disappearing from the window. Tony narrowed his eyes, tracking him by the sound of his voice.

Fat lot of good that would do, seeing as he handed in his gun to the station. Wonderful.

"Why are you... doing this?" Tony asked, shaking his head to clear it. "Why me?"

A light flicked on, casting jagged shadows across Loki's face. Tony caught a flash of white teeth, that wolffish grin he'd seen turned on others twice during the few days they had known one another.

Lokis smile dropped, a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice, "Why do they always ask that?"

"What?"

"'Why me?'" Loki answered, pursing his lips as he looked Tony over. "People think so highly of themselves."

"It must be the way you make them feel so special," Tony snapped, voice dripping with venom. Two could play this game, until Loki did whatever it was he did and Tony ends up dead.

"But really, why? The case didn't even need any interference on your part. Apparently, my lead was wrong."

"No, Stark, your hunch was correct. There was no water in that glass, I was forced to set up the scene after she took my advice so easily. They always did call me Silver Tongue."

"How did you know—"

Loki interrupted, "You were yelling into your phone about evaporation all the way from the diner to that alleyway."

"But the paper... The note, it was from her printer."

Loki huffed and shook his head. "That ridiculous girl was unconscious much too quickly, forcing me to type the note on her behalf. Amazingly easy to persuade, that one."

"And you wore gloves, I assume."

"Do I look like an amateur?" Loki sneered.

"You don't want to know what you look like to me right now."

The man gave a shrug and began to move around the room slowly, picking up things, knocking some of them over and leaving others. He paused and pulled out a tumbler from his satchel, placing it on the coffee table directly in front of Tony.

If he moved right now, Tony could reach the door before Loki had time to move around the coffee table, himself. All he needed was a second, just a second, and he could escape.

"I see you calculating over there," Loki spoke, placing a bottle of Tony's favorite whiskey next to the glass. "I don't want you to look at this as a detective."

"Yeah? How else am I supposed to see it? This is attempted murder—well, so far, it's attempted."

Loki leaned back and smiled at him, just like he did back at the diner. Just like he did after they kissed for the first, and every other time after that. Like he cared about him. Like Tony was special.

"Think of it as Mercy."

"Mercy?" Tony scoffed.

"That girl... Lilly. She had very little chance of survival, and even if she did, what kind of a life would she have? Suffering through treatments, surgeries, recovery? She would have no time to work, never mind the strength to do those jobs. She was suffering all alone, just like you."

Tony wanted to yell, 'Yeah? Well i'm not dying of cancer!' But he didn't think that was really the point. Speaking of points, how the hell did Loki know so much about her illness, never mind his own condition?

And then, it finally dawned on him. The reason Loki knew so much about both his and Lilly's health. The very same reason Loki couldn't visit him in the hospital when Tony asked him to.

"You're a doctor! You're one of those 'Angel of Death' type people," Tony shouted, snapping his fingers and letting out a dark laugh. "No wonder you couldn't come see me, you were probably lurking around down the hall, looking at my records and planning your next murder."

Loki waved that off with a gloved hand. "Nonsense. I may work in the hospital, but I had long since accessed your records and crafted my plans. No, I was transferring your money to my account."

"Uh huh... So not so much mercy-killings but more like robbing the weak and sickly and then killing them? For fun."

"However you wish to see it. I am what I am."

"Oh no. No. I haven't told you how I see it—what you are," Tony growled, leaning forward and placing his weight on the balls of his feet. "Would you like to know?"

Loki's lips twitched downward, his eyes narrowing at Tony's words.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"You're a genius," Tony began, leaning forward inch by inch. "A sick genius who kissed me like a man wanting to be saved even though he knows that in a few days time, he's going to ruin the man sitting across from him. You're too smart to change, but you thought about it, didn't you? For a minute there, you wanted that to be all there was. Just waffles and kisses and a life with me and all that fucking money. You, Loki, wanted to live."

Every ounce of humor had left Loki's eyes, now, leaving behind exactly what Tony wanted.

Fear.

"Tell me," he whispered, "do you still want to be saved?"

Loki's mouth dropped open, words forming—words Tony didn't want to hear.

You want to hear them.

But he was too quick, kicking off from the balls of his feet and slamming head first into Loki's nose.

The man fell backwards, blood spraying from his nose while his satchel of God-knows-what flew free. Glass vials and pill bottles skittering across the floor.

For a moment, black flashed before his eyes, and a moment was all Loki needed to regain the upper hand. Long legs cut through the air, catching Tony behind the knees and sending him to the floor.

The darkness stayed longer this time, long enough for Loki to recover from the blow and crawl over his body to pin him down.

"I should have known you'd be trouble," Loki muttered, blood dripping from his nose on to Tony's face. Reality was coming back to him now, and it sucked because the man's fingers were curled tightly around both wrists, his knees pinning down Tony's legs far too easily for such a skinny man.

Tony struggled, twisting his body under him, trying to get his knees up enough to get Loki in the groin, trying to twist his hands free from his grip. If anything, each movement hindered him even more, and left him feeling drained. He was a cop, for fucks sake. Years of training, worth nothing after his injury. He was weak. Tony Stark, the end of the Stark line.

Fucking weak.

"Loki..." He tried. "Loki, you can't get away with this. They'll catch you."

"By the time they find your body, I will be half way across the world, living lavishly in a country with no extradition laws."

"And you'll just live with that?" Tony hissed, going limp under Loki's weight. "Did you kiss all the people you killed? How about the under-table grouping, too? Did you do that with Lilly?"

One again, there was that flash in Loki's eyes, of doubt or fear or something else. Loki was softer when it appeared, all his rough edges smoothing out for only a moment.

He actually looked... beautiful.

Loki whispered, "No," and leaned down to kiss him.

Tony tasted blood and a hint of whiskey. Clearly, Loki had been drinking before the party even started. Was it regret? Drinking his second guesses away, perhaps. Or maybe he always drank before he killed, like some kind of ritual.

The kiss deepened without him noticing, and appallingly enough, Tony couldn't hold back the groan that escaped him. He wanted it. He fucking wanted this stupid, insane kiss and more.

He wanted waffles and dates and a life with millions of dollars to spend and the world to see. There was nothing left for him here but an empty apartment, and bi-weekly lunches with a friend who couldn't stand him anymore.

He could actually be free of this crap life of his.

With a murderer who still plans on murdering you, probably.

Not his best idea.

Not his worst, either.

"Loki—mmpph!—Loki wait... I have a thought—several thoughts," he said through the increasingly panicked kisses. "Loki..."

"Please," was whispered against his lips.

"We can run away, like you planned," Tony continued, pretending the wetness against his cheeks was blood from Loki's nose, nothing else. "We can eat breakfast all day and I can teach you how to read lips, since that's, like, my only teachable skill set."

Loki sob-chuckled, pressing his face into Tony's cheek in silence.

"And you can tell me who you really are, outside of all this doctor-killing-dying-people stuff. And it will be just you and me, Loki. Just you and me with the whole world to explore."

Loki sat up, a hesitant smile shining through the blood caking his nose and lips.

"Do you mean it?" He asked.

A shot rang out.

For a second, there was nothing but shocked, green eyes.

Then the world tilted, and

You can't have this, Tony. You can't, you can't, you can't.

He should have known that Steve saw him that day, way back when Tony followed him to the cemetery. He probably knew, all this time, that Tony kept his secrets out of some sort of misplaced honor. Maybe this was his way of getting him back.

Malicious.

"Why are you here?" Tony asked, loud enough for the man behind the tree to hear.

"I was just checking up on you," came his answer, and a moment later Rogers stepped out from behind the tree and approached him. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Haven't you done enough?"

"Tony... I heard what you said."

"I should hope so, seeing as your standing right there," Tony replied without turning around.

"To Loki," the captain corrected. "Before I... before he died."

"You only heard part of it... and why does it matter?"

There was a nervous shuffling behind him, before he answered, "the things you were saying... running away, Tony? With a murderer? Please tell me you weren't serious."

'Please...'

"I was playing him," Tony answered. "Telling him what he wanted to hear while I tried to figure out a way out of there."

The wind picked up, carrying the silence between them away with the fluttering of hundreds of tiny flags for all those honorable heroes buried in the same dirt as the criminals.

"Okay, Tony... okay. If that's what you meant, I'll trust you." Rogers shuffled again, uncomfortable under the the weight of things left unsaid.

"Do have someone you can talk to?"

The petals from the flowers he left last week, caught the wind and scattered through the air around them.

'Do you mean it?'

Tony smiled at the cold, gray stone before him.

"I do."


End file.
